


When in Summer

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, NONE OF THIS IS CANON, No Beta, Period-Typical Homophobia, for health reasons, not really edited either, welp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28487466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A Steve and Bucky romance through the ages, ft. internalized homophobia.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38
Collections: Anonymous





	When in Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Just one more time for the people in the back: there is a _lot_ of internalized homophobia here.

I.

Bucky was the first one bold enough to touch. They were twelve and thirteen. The year was 1930. Summer had hit full force, dredging up the worst of the city’s smells. The heat was unbearable. 

“I don’t care what Ma says, it’s too hot,” Bucky declared before unbuttoning his shirt. They were both lounged on the fire escape, back flat on the rusting metal, legs dangling through the railings. Fresh laundry dangled above their heads, partially obscuring their view of the sky. Steve thought he could feel the entire fire escape tremble as Bucky fidgeted, struggling to unbutton his shirt as fast as he could. Bucky had begun to grow thin, brown arm hairs over the past winter. Lying no more than a foot apart, Steve could feel each feathery brush of Bucky’s hairs against his own naked arm. The contact sent a strange shiver down Steve’s spine. A rare chill in the midst of summer heat. Steve wondered if Bucky had any idea they were making contact. 

“If you lie still, you won’t be so hot,” Steve said, parroting his own mother’s advice. 

“If we had some of that fancy air conditioning, we wouldn’t be hot either,” Bucky said. He paused. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a quarter on you?”

“No, Buck.”

“Darn. The movies would be great right about now.”

Finally, after what felt like forever, Bucky stopped fidgeting. Instead, his right leg began kicking gently out into the air. Steve thought he could feel each gentle lull of the fire escape. He knew, deep down, that the fire escape probably wasn’t moving. The Barnes’ apartment complex wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t completely dilapidated. No, Steve was simply being too hyper-aware of Bucky’s every movement, as he had been for the past few months. It took Steve a while to notice this sudden sensitivity. He wasn’t sure why it was happening, or what it meant. Periodically, Steve considered telling Bucky about his strange, new predicament. Steve always told Bucky everything. Bucky also told Steve everything. Newly twelve and thirteen, there was a lot of everything to say. Hair was growing where it shouldn’t. Feelings were happening when they shouldn’t. Steve sometimes felt a little embarrassed when he shared, but he shared nonetheless because he liked knowing he wasn’t alone in his secret. Steve’s recent development, however, felt different. This secret felt more fragile, more evil. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about,” Bucky asked, his voice lazy. “Let me guess—Ruth Elliot from English.”

“Shut up,” Steve said, feeling a blush come over his cheeks. He wasn’t thinking about Ruth Elliot at all. 

“Okay then, how about Florence what’s-her-name that lives next door?”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ of no broad, you jerk,” Steve said. 

“Why not? What else’s so important that it’s got you all quiet?” 

“None of your damn business,” Steve said. He licked his lips. “Why, is all you do think of broads all day?”

Steve wasn’t sure why, but he felt a little wounded at the idea. He tried to not let too much hurt seep into his voice, but Bucky must’ve caught onto something, because the thirteen year old fell into a brief silence rather than tossed back another quip. 

“I think of other stuff too,” Bucky said contemplatively. The metal underneath their backs creaked slightly as Bucky shifted his weight. Steve forced his eyes to stare up into the sky. It was a blue day. The kind of perfect blue day you read about in books. Steve thought he could feel the weight of Bucky’s stare.

“I think about how to get out of this heat.”

“I don’t got a quarter, Buck,” Steve said. The conversation was tiring him. 

“Nah, we don’t.” A pause. “That just means we gotta think harder.”

Steve couldn’t help it. He chanced a glance—and he was right. Bucky was leaning on an elbow, looking down at Steve. The top half of his shirt buttons were undone, revealing pale, smooth skin. Steve swallowed as gently as he could. No words managed to come out of his mouth as Bucky reached a hand—his right hand—over and ghosted his fingertips over the buttons of Steve’s shirt. Steve had already undone the first three buttons, and Bucky’s hand gravitated toward that small patch of milky skin. When the tips of Bucky’s fingers touched against Steve’s sternum, Steve felt something white and cold tear through his body, all the way down to his toes. He jolted, or at least thought he jolted. The sensation was almost unbearable. 

“I got cold fingers, yeah?” Bucky said. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. 

  
  


Steve was fifteen when he understood that touch on the fire escape. His mother was out, off at work, and Florence from next door wanted to know if the Rogers’ wanted some spare cake. 

“I’m sure Mrs. Rogers wouldn’t mind,” Florence said, setting the cake down on the Rogers’ kitchen counter. “There’s no way my family would be able to finish all of it before it goes bad.”

Steve suspected the cake was more charity than convenience. It was 1932. No one in Brooklyn had spare cake. The Rogers had it a little worse though, with no Mr. Rogers around to pay the bill. 

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, leaning against the counter. No matter his pride, he couldn’t turn down spare cake.

“My brother’s birthday,” Florence said. 

“Henry?”

Florence nodded. 

“Tell Henry I said happy birthday—and tell Mrs. Florence I said thank you.” Steve thought that was a decently polite dismissal. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the company. He just didn’t think conversations while dropping off cake tended to be very long. It seemed Steve was wrong. Florence, dressed in a flowery home-stitched dress and scuffed Mary Janes, didn’t move a single inch towards the door. 

“City juice?” Steve offered. 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Florence said, sounding pleased. She sat herself at the kitchen table, skirt neatly smoothed beneath her legs, as Steve poured her a glass of water. He set the glass in front of her, then, a beat later, pulled a chair out for himself. Florence held the glass in both hands, head lowering as if to take a sip, then glanced back up. Her gaze didn’t waver from Steve’s. 

“Is… is something wrong?” Steve asked. A small smile tugged at Florence’s lips. 

“No.”

“Oh, ‘cause I just thought…”

Florence set the glass down. It wasn’t often that Steve was alone with someone his age without Bucky. With no Bucky in sight, Steve suddenly found himself noticing things about Florence he never noticed before: the way her brown hair curled gently, the slight curve to her eyes that made her look like she had a secret. 

“Will Mrs. Rogers be back anytime soon?” Florence asked. 

“Not until dinner,” Steve said. Then, as though his body no longer belonged to him, Steve’s hand drifted across the table to settle shakily over Florence’s. Florence’s fingers were thin and pretty, though not without their scars. Steve thought he rather liked the scars. He brushed his thumb over a thin, healed cut along Florence’s thumb. Florence folded her lips in shyly. Her other hand, the one not touching Steve’s, then drifted toward Steve’s chest. She sat forward in her chair to reach him, and Steve scooted forward as well. When her fingers grazed his collar bone, the same cold shudder ran through Steve’s body. He wondered why his body never reacted that way when it was his own hand. 

Then, without warning, Florence’s hand dropped low. Steve caught it right before her hand reached his belly. 

“I—wait, what?”

“What?” Florence asked, looking confused. 

“I just, I thought—”

A stricken look came over Florence’s face. 

“Oh, I—”

“Did you—were you—” Steve forced himself to breathe. “I didn’t realize you were, well…”

“Yeah, I was,” Florence said. She seemed to be waiting for Steve to say more, but when Steve remained silent, her eyes left his to gaze down at her Mary Janes. “I better go,” she said hurriedly. She tugged her hand out of Steve’s grasp. Steve couldn’t find the will to protest. Without looking back up, Florence stood and beelined out the door. The door felt shut behind her. Steve stared at the untouched glass of water on the table. He felt the ghost of a touch on his collar bone, his sternum. 

“Fuck,” Steve said. He reached a hand up and pressed it against his red flushed throat. “Fucking  _ fuck _ .”

  
  


There was something about him, Steve supposed. Something the others saw as clear as day, making them hurl words at him from across the street. Sometimes, Steve stared at himself in the mirror wondering what that discernible quality was. Was it his stature, short and sickly? His frail bones, the way he spoke? Or was it not something he could see in the bathroom mirror, but rather something he could only observe in the shop windows as he walked? In other words, was it the way he moved?

“Watcha doin’, pal?” Bucky asked one day when he caught Steve doing exactly that—staring at himself in the shop windows. “Thinkin’ about a modelin’ career or something?”

“Shut up,” Steve said, giving Bucky a light push. “I should be askin’ you that, with how much time you spend stylin’ your hair.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, reaching up to touch his hair. It was combed and gelled back meticulously. “The dames love it.”

Steve snorted, but he felt it again—that hurt deep in his chest. It was 1935. Nothing had changed. 

“Whatever,” Bucky said. “You didn’t lose your quarter, did you?”

“Jerk,” Steve said, running his shoulder into Bucky’s. Bucky laughed out loud. A pair of girls across the street looked over. 

They were set to watch a comedy called  _ False Pretenses, _ starring Irene Ware and Sidney Blackmer. Steve didn’t care much for the plot, insofar as Bucky had described it, but it was the dead of July, and neither Steve nor Bucky could stand another second of heat. The movies was the only place they could go with air conditioning. 

“So Irene Ware’s character is trying to get married? And Sidney Blackmer—” Steve snorted “—plays a millionaire?”

“You’re over analyzing,” Bucky said. “You’re gonna get a kick out of this.”

There was a line forming already at the Regal. By the time Steve and Bucky got in, all the front row seats had been filled. “The back’s better anyway,” Bucky said, selecting two seats close to the aisle. Bucky sounded strangely distracted as he said so, and when Steve looked over, Bucky was glancing at something over his shoulder. 

The movie did not particularly entice Steve. From what he gathered, Irene Ware’s character was attempting lure a prospective husband for the sake of a scam. He had no idea what Blackmer’s character was even doing. Every now and then, Steve sensed Bucky shifting. The movie was about a quarter way through when Bucky stood up. 

“Bathroom,” he whispered, and slipped past Steve, their legs brushing, to reach the aisle. 

Ten minutes passed, and Bucky did not return. Steve stared at Bucky’s seat indecisively. Then he stood up. 

The lobby was scarce, with only a few patrons awaiting the next showing. Steve quickly scanned concessions. No Bucky. He then ducked into the bathrooms. It was quiet, empty, except—

In the last stall, there were clearly two pairs of legs, one standing, the other kneeling. Steve immediately recognized Bucky’s pants, Bucky’s shoes. He was the one kneeling. 

There was a wet sound in the air, one that immediately made Steve blush red hot, hotter than any summer he’d ever lived. There was also the light panting of a stranger. Steve immediately backpedaled, his heartbeat echoing wetly in his ears. He returned to his seat in the theater. He stared blankly at the screen. It seemed like only a few moments later that Bucky was back, brushing past Steve’s legs again to reach his seat. 

“Did I miss anything?”

Steve looked up. Bucky was looking at him as if everything was right in the world. The only giveaways were the slight flush to his cheeks and his hair. His perfectly combed, gelled hair. It looked somewhat disturbed, as though someone had grabbed it, fisted it, tugged it, before Bucky smoothed it back over in the mirror. 

“Nothin’,” Steve said. “Not much to miss in this movie.”

Bucky snorted, earning a hush from a man down the row. Steve had focused back on the movie when he heard someone enter the theater, taking a seat on a squeaky chair on the far left side of the theater. Bucky glanced over his shoulder. Steve bit the inside of his lip.

When the movie was done and over, Bucky did most of the talking. When Bucky made a passing remark about Irene Ware, Steve couldn’t help but look over in bewilderment. Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve’s look. 

“What? She’s pretty. You don’t think so?”

Steve then, in a way he had never before, studied his friend. He studied him for  _ signs. _ Because whatever Steve was, Bucky was one too. It couldn’t be the stature then, not the voice, the posture, the movement. What was it then? What was it that made them  _ them? _

“Why are you starin’ at me like that?” Bucky asked, sounding a little uncomfortable. They had stopped walking now, and people milled around them to get through. Bucky’s hand unconsciously combed through his hair. He put a joking twist to his lips. “Is there something wrong with my face?”

_ No, _ Steve wanted to say.  _ There’s nothing wrong, and that’s what confuses me. _

  
  


Steve’s mother asked one night, when Steve was visiting to drop off some food. His mother had developed another cold, but she insisted he stay back at his apartment with Bucky near the docks, lest Steve himself catch the cold as well. It was 1938. Both Steve and Bucky were twenty years old. 

“Do you remember Florence?” Steve’s mother asked with a smile. She was curled up in the living room while Steve heated soup. 

“Henry’s sister?” Steve asked. He knew Florence better than Henry, but addressing her as Florence directly just made him too uncomfortable. 

“Yes, Florence. She was a nice girl, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“I hear she’s visiting her mother this Christmas.”

“That’s nice. Good.”

“Mm,” Steve’s mother hummed. She looked down at her hands, studying their wrinkles. “She hasn’t married yet, you know.”

Steve let the wood spook clank against the side of the pot.

“ _ Mom. _ ”

“I know, I know,” Steve’s mother said, smiling. “I thought I’d just give it a shot.” A pause. “She was smitten with you, you know.”

Steve stared down at the boiling soup, which contained his warped reflection. 

“Yeah, I know.”

Steve’s mother looked up. “You weren’t interested?”

“I…” Steve didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t  _ dis _ like her.”

There were words he wanted to say. Many words.  _ I didn’t dislike her, but I couldn’t love her. She’s beautiful, but that’s not what I need. I want something more. I want too much. I want to tell you all of this, but I need you to love me. _

“Well,” Steve’s mother said after a brief silence. “Is there someone you are interested in?”

Steve thought of thick brown hair and shadowy dark eyes. He certainly loved Bucky, but he wasn’t sure he quite loved Bucky the way his parents loved one another. The difference between Bucky and Florence though was that he thought he could learn to love Bucky that way. When he thought about Bucky, he could imagine the future: an apartment in the better part of town, a bed with a comforter they agreed upon, some new, shiny automated device in their kitchen, or whatever Howard Stark was inventing these days. When Steve thought about Florence, all he saw was a fifteen year old girl sitting across a kitchen table with a glass of water. 

Steve wanted to tell his mother this. If his mother’s face fell, it would all be over—but if his mother smiled her kind, small smile, then everything would be worth it. 

“Mom,” Steve said. He could feel his voice crumbling. “What if I did something wrong?”

Steve’s mother shifted on the couch. 

“Like what, Stevie?”

Steve was caught between spitting the word out rapidly and swallowing the word down forever. 

_ Say it say it say it—  _

“Just something. Nothing in particular.”

Steve’s mother was quiet for a moment, then hummed in thought. 

“You didn’t kill anyone, did you?” she joked. “Then again, you’d probably go running to Bucky if that’s the case, not me.”

Steve felt his stomach lurch. 

“Stevie,” Steve’s mother said. Steve was certain that if he looked over, her eyes would be soft. “As long as you’re not hurting anybody, you’re fine. And—and even if you did, I’ll still love you. That’s how love works.”

_ But what if I’m disgusting, _ Steve wanted to ask.  _ What if I’m disgusting in a way that makes you want to scream?  _ He’s heard the horror stories: castration. Lobotomy. Electroshock.  _ What if I  _ want _ to be disgusting? What if it’s not that you won’t love me, but that you’ll want to cure me of something I don’t want cured? _

“Mom…” Steve said pathetically. He could break everything with a single word.

“Stevie,” Steve’s mother sighed. “You think too much, you know that?”

_ Say it say it say it—  _

“I know,” Steve said. 

  
  


Later that winter, Steve’s mother passed. By summer, it all seemed like a vague, disembodied memory. It was hard to remember the winter chill with the brazen, June heat shining down on his back. 

While Bucky worked down at the docks, Steve got a position doing finances for a downtown company. The pay was okay, but the hours were long and boring. With the apartment closer to the docks, Bucky always managed to arrive home first and start dinner. 

“Let me guess, more bean soup?” Steve asked, entering the apartment. 

“Even better,” Bucky said, peering through the kitchen doorway. “I added ham chunks today.”

“Superb,” Steve said sarcastically. 

“Marvelous,” Bucky added. 

Dinner was eaten at the kitchen table, Steve reading the news while Bucky devoured another one of his paperbacks. Steve got quickly bored of the headlines and looked up at Bucky. 

“Whatcha reading?”

“Mm. Future.”

“Sci-fi?”

“Mm.”

Steve studied the cover. There was a bold illustration of a curved looking skyscraper and cars zooming across the sky. 

“I hear Howard Stark’s still trying to get that car to fly.”

Bucky finally glanced up, a small smile on his face. 

“And he’s gonna. Just you watch.”

Steve looked down at his soup. Then he looked back up at Bucky. Bucky hadn’t much touched his soup. He got that way when he really liked a book. 

“Say,” Steve began, “what do you think the future’s really like?”

“Huh?” Bucky asked. 

“I mean, what is it like besides flying cars and skyscrapers?”

Bucky finally looked up then. Truly looked up, setting down his book and everything. 

“You mean something in particular. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t mean anything in particular,” Steve said, trying to resist a flush. “All I mean is, you think anything is gonna change besides cars and what not?”

“Well—” Bucky’s eyes flickered unsurely for a moment “—I think… I think how we treat people is gonna be different. Better.”

Bucky could’ve been talking about anything. Immigrant rights. Civil rights. Women’s rights. Normally, Steve would prod, and Bucky would answer, but there was a weight behind Steve’s words that they both sensed.

“At least I hope,” Bucky tacked on. “Not much fun to be hated for no reason.”

“And what would you know about that?”

The worst part was, Steve couldn’t tell if they were talking about the same thing or not. He hated the ambiguity. 

“Nothin’ I suppose,” Bucky said. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  
  


It was shortly after the fourth of July holidays that Bucky came home with a black eye and blood dripping onto his shirt. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve said, ushering Bucky inside. Bucky pried away from Steve a little, still holding his nose. Steve could only watch as Bucky dug through the fridge for a pack of frozen peas. For a moment, they stood silent, Bucky breathing through his mouth as he pressed the cold pack of peas against his nose. 

“What happened?” Steve finally asked. “It’s usually me comin’ home like this.”

Bucky snorted, then winced. 

“Just some crazy fella on the street,” Bucky said. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

It was late evening on a Sunday. Before he left, Bucky claimed he was going home to babysit his sisters while his parents took a night off on the town. Steve was beginning to doubt this story. 

“Your sisters alright?” Steve asked. Bucky looked him square in the eye. The look wasn’t mean, nor frigid. Just a little tired.

“Sorry,” Steve amended. 

“Don’t say that,” Bucky said. “If anything, it’s me that's got to apologize.”

“Nah,” Steve smiled. He felt his shoulders relax more. “Ya sock him back?”

Bucky smirked. “You need to ask?”

“Sounds like that fella got what was comin’.”

Bucky looked down, eyebrows wrinkling suddenly. Another moment of silence settled over them. 

“Steve,” Bucky said. It was dark out already, and in the dim lighting of their apartment, Bucky’s voice sounded fragile. “What if it’s me that did something wrong?”

Steve felt his breath hitch in his throat. 

“Whatcha mean, Buck?”

Bucky looked down at his shoes. 

“You either know what I mean, Steve, or you don’t.”

This was it, Steve thought. This could either be the beginning of something, or just another day. He thought of stirring soup in his mother’s apartment. He swallowed heavily. 

“Come on, Buck. Let me get you cleaned up.”

The bathroom was small, but they managed to both fit. Bucky sat on the edge of the tub while Steve wiped blood from his face. 

“Well, I don’t think your nose is broken,” Steve said. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me.”

Bucky had done this for him dozens of times before, whether as kids when Steve didn’t want his Ma to know, or as adults when there was no one else to do it for him. While Bucky cleaned him up, Steve liked to study’s Bucky’s eyes as they roamed over his face, searching for any remaining injuries. He was rarely on the other side of this scenario. Steve could feel the weight of Bucky’s stare as he cleaned him up. Had Bucky been able to feel Steve’s stare too?

Steve thought he had cleaned up all of the blood when he noticed a fleck on Bucky’s lip. Gently, ever so gently, Steve reached a hand out. Bucky gazed up at him in wonder. 

Steve touched the swell of Bucky’s lip with his index finger. Bucky’s mouth parted slightly, and Steve felt a soft brush of warm air against his knuckles. Steve ran his finger toward the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky’s head turned slightly with the action, as though chasing Steve’s finger. Finally, his heart racing in his chest, Steve pressed his finger past the soft skin into hot, wet mouth. Bucky’s teeth clamped lightly down on the finger, then his lips closed to wrap around the second knuckle. 

“Fuck,” Steve whispered. Bucky smiled around Steve’s finger. Then Bucky glanced downward. Steve’s eyes followed. Steve was already hard. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Steve said again, pulling his finger suddenly out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky flinched as Steve’s finger knocked against his upper teeth.

“Fuck, sorry, sorry, sorry—” Steve wasn’t sure if he was apologizing about the teeth or the finger or all of it. “I’m so sorry, Bucky, I didn’t—”

“Shut up, you punk,” Bucky said. “You want to get off or not?”

Steve’s mouth fell open. 

“I—yeah,” he said. “Fuck yeah.”

Then, without preamble, Bucky was off the bathtub and on his knees. Steve wasn’t sure if he could handle this. He stumbled backward slightly, back hitting the closed door. His hand accidentally hit the light switch. The bathroom went dark. Steve moved to turn it back on.

“No, keep it this way,” Bucky said, hand grabbing Steve’s. There was a slight light from a thin strip of window high above the tub. It was enough to catch glimpses of Bucky’s outline—his hair, his eyelashes, his shoulders. Steve’s belt clinked as Bucky undid it. Then a warm, wet mouth was around Steve’s length, and heat and ice shot through every nerve of his body. 

“Jesus,” Steve whispered, then laughed when he could feel Bucky smiling. His hands clenched instinctively in Bucky’s hair. As soon as the contact was made, something deep and predatory took over him, telling him to pull at Bucky’s hair. He did. Bucky leaned into Steve’s touch. Steve came just like that. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Steve breathed as Bucky slipped off, coughing. “Fuck, I shoulda warned you.” 

“No, don’t worry about it,” Bucky said, his voice a little hoarse. Steve moved to turn back on the light, but then Bucky’s hand was clutching at his leg. “No, no—not yet,” Bucky said. “Just a little longer.”

Steve didn’t know what Bucky meant until his own knees bent, and he was on the floor with Bucky. Steve wasn’t quite sure what Bucky wanted until Bucky wiped his mouth. Then Steve leaned forward, close enough to feel Bucky’s breath on his lips. 

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asked. 

“You better,” Bucky said. 

  
  


Sometimes, in the aftermath of sex—which, for them, was still confined to kisses and blowjobs and handjobs—Steve felt a lingering sense of doubt. 

“Why me,” Steve asked as they were both lying on Bucky’s bed, the sheets clinging to their naked skin. The window was open, allowing the sounds of the city to slip in. There was something reassuring about hearing the world pass by as he lied naked with Bucky. It was almost as if somebody was saying that it was okay. That even if Steve had committed what the book called a sin, the world would still go on. 

“Why not you?” Bucky replied. He had his head on Steve’s outstretched forearm, and even though Steve’s arm was starting to fall asleep, Steve said nothing. 

“I’m not what a man should be,” Steve said. “And I’m not a woman.”

Bucky’s hand crept over, tapping against the outlines of Steve’s ribs. 

“Why me then,” Bucky asked. “Is it just because I’m a man?”

“No,” Steve scoffed. “You know what I’m sayin’, Buck.”

“Yeah, I do,” Bucky said. “You’re saying bullshit.”

A moment passed, then Bucky suddenly sat up. He slung a leg across Steve’s body, and suddenly he was leaned over Steve and straddling his hips. 

“You want to be a man?” Bucky asked. 

“Buck,” Steve huffed, feeling a little embarrassed. “I was just rambling—”

“You want to be a man?” Bucky asked again. “Then fuck me.”

“What?” Steve asked, bewildered. 

“Fuck me,” Bucky said. “Fuck me like you’d fuck a girl. Then you’ll see afterwards that we’re still both men.”

“Bucky… we’re not going to do this just to prove a point.”

“Maybe I want to do this anyway.”

Steve stared up at Bucky. 

“Have you done this before?”

“No,” Bucky said. “But I know I want to.”

“Buck,” Steve said. He felt hot desire bloom in his gut. Then shame and disgust rattled in his chest. “Buck, that’s illegal.”

“We’re way past that, Stevie.”

“This is different, Buck. This is… this is…”

_ Illegal. A sin. Disgusting.  _

“What,” Bucky said, sounding a little annoyed and a little hurt. Steve didn’t mean for it to hurt. “Afraid big bad me is gonna drag you to hell?”

Not really. Steve couldn’t even remember the last time he went to church. It wasn’t so much that he feared hell, or even truly believed in hell… but other people did, and Steve was just a small soul in the world of other people. 

“That was harsh,” Bucky suddenly said. “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Steve repeated. 

“I ruined the mood, didn’t I,” Bucky said half jokingly. 

“It’s fine,” Steve said, and Bucky slumped back down on the mattress with a sigh.

II.

In 1939, Steve moved out. In 1941, Steve moved back in. In 1942, just after the holidays, Bucky went to war. Steve soon followed suit. 

It was almost as if war erased anything that had taken place in their shared apartment in the long, secret hours of the afternoon. 

“Punk,” Bucky said, passing him in the barracks. The word: brusque and light on his tongue. The attitude: cheery but flippant, as though he were speaking to a friend, a brother. Only romance feels precarious enough to demand a heavier, more serious tone. 

They hardly had any time to themselves at camp, so Steve wasn't sure if the sudden chuminess was a front or the truth. Since the serum, the only time they had to themselves as at Azzano, Bucky half cognisant and wobbling on drunken legs. They were too concerned about surviving then to have a real conversation.

There was also the matter of Steve’s new body—he didn’t know how it fit with Bucky’s anymore, or if it fit at all. He couldn’t count the number of times Bucky had to whisper to him back on their bed in Brooklyn that Steve’s ninety pounds of bone and mucous was what he wanted. Now, Steve thought that perhaps Bucky was really telling the truth: Steve’s ninety pounds of bone and mucous was  _ all _ he wanted. Nothing more. 

Finally, on a night somewhere in France, the rest of the Howling Commandos disappeared into town to get drunk, leaving Bucky and Steve alone at camp. 

Steve wasn’t sure why Bucky hadn’t gone with the others. On the logical side of things, Bucky was likely tired. The kind of exhaustion not even drunkenness could cure. All of them succumbed to this exhaustion now and then, albeit Bucky less so than the others. A larger part of Steve, which he was actively trying to swallow down, whispered that this was intentional. Bucky had planned staying behind. They weren’t at war with their affection—they were co-conspirators.

One day, distantly in the future, when all of this was far enough behind to remember without visceral pain, Steve would recall how, in the quiet moments after the rest of the Commandos had left, the two of them prepared for bed awkwardly, moving with sudden striking familiarity that seemed to trigger long untapped muscle memory.

The rule was three to a tent, one on patrol. They were in safe territory tonight though, and there was no need for lookout. When Jim, Dum Dum, Gabe, Falsworth and Dernier returned, Falsworth would have to settle in next to Steve and Bucky while the rest of them crammed into the other tent. Odds were, they would not be back until early next morning. That left nearly an entire night for just the two of them. 

“You still want right side?” Bucky said jokingly as they unzipped the tent flap. The question was startling. Steve wondered how such an innocuous question could imply so much. 

“As long as you keep your head on your pillow, not on my arm,” Steve shot back, ducking into the tent. 

“Ouch, Rogers. I thought you liked me better than that.”

The statement was playful, almost coy, but there was truth in those words, and when Steve turned around, Bucky was staring up at him in uncertainty. He was nervous. Steve wasn’t quite sure what to say. So instead, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips. 

Soft, because Steve still wasn’t sure where they stood. Soft, because it had been months since he last kissed Bucky, and he didn’t want it to be something quick and rough that he’d forget. Bucky’s mouth soon parted beneath Steve’s lips, and Steve felt hands rest on his thighs as Bucky leaned forward. Steve felt intoxicated, though he could no longer get drunk. He thought to himself that he could stay in this moment forever. Then, all at once, Bucky pulled away. There was a pause of silence where they could only hear each other’s breaths. Steve stared at Bucky helplessly. 

“Strange to be kissing up,” Bucky eventually said. His lips twitched with a grin. “I think I can get used to it.”

That word.  _ Kissing _ . It reminded him of where he was: out in the dark countryside of France, the woods all around them. 

“Close the tent,” Steve said. His voice sounded hoarse. 

“On it, Captain.” Bucky winked. When the tent zipped up, the sounds of the outdoors suddenly became distant. The interior of the tent also became darker. Steve felt a familiar hunger in his chest, but this time, there was no accompanying ache. They were alone in the countryside, so distant from dense, noisy Brooklyn. The law of the people no longer seemed applicable with no people around to uphold it. Instead, there was only the law of nature, thrumming in the trees, the fireflies, and in Steve’s every bone. He wanted in the way that all creatures could want. 

Bucky unlaced his boots, his eyes on Steve the entire time. Steve watched. When the boots were off, Bucky crept forward until his palms rested on Steve’s thighs. Steve was sat on his sleeping bag, his arms propping himself up. Bucky leaned forward, and their bodies slotted together once again, chest to chest. Steve thought he could feel Bucky’s heartbeat through both their shirts and torsos. Bucky mouthed at the juncture of Steve’s throat and collarbone, his hot breath sending shudders down Steve’s spine. Steve closed his eyes, nuzzling his cheek into Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s mouth migrated up to Steve’s chin, giving it a playful bite. 

“Kiss me like we’re home,” Bucky whispered. 

Steve settled his arms on Bucky’s waist, then shifted their weight until Bucky was seated on the sleep mat, Steve leaning over him. Home meant secrecy, but home also meant having all the time in the world. Steve undid the buttons to Bucky’s shirt one by one until he was only in his thin white tank top, the shape of his dog tags pressing through the fabric. Steve could see the gentle curves of muscle, the shadows of his nipples, round and flat like coins. Bucky stared up at him with dark eyes. Steve took a moment to meet his gaze. His hands reached out, almost shaking, and grasped the straps to Bucky’s tank top, sliding them down his shoulders. Then Steve leaned forward, mouthing at Bucky’s collarbones, the dog tags. As he did so, Bucky tugged the green undershirt Steve had on over his head. 

“Are we going to do this properly?” Bucky asked. Steve faltered briefly, and Bucky’s chest rumbled with a low laugh. 

“Don’t worry Stevie. I’ll let you play the boy.”

  
  


Being inside Bucky was more intense than anything Steve could ever imagine. He needed to take a few moments after fully seating himself to gather his wits. Thankfully, Bucky didn’t laugh and instead ran his fingers up and down Steve’s biceps, as if mapping the landscape of new territory. Steve supposed it  _ was _ new territory. 

When he was sure that he wouldn’t immediately come, Steve began thrusting. What amazed him were the light breaths he seemed to punch out of Bucky. Bucky clung to his arms when Steve started moving faster. Small, low moans escaped from Bucky’s throat. Steve was getting closer, and closer, and— 

_ SNAP. _

Steve froze. 

“Steve?”

Steve was still listening, but nothing else came. 

“Did you hear that?” Steve asked. Bucky frowned, propping himself up onto his elbows. He did not look happy at the sudden interruption. 

“Hear what?” Bucky asked.

“That. It was—it was like a snapping noise.”

Bucky sighed, falling back down onto the sleeping mat, sweat glistening on his forehead. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing. An animal, maybe. Come on. You’re killing me here.”

“What if it’s them?”

“It’s not. They won’t be back till sunrise.”

“Did they say that?”

“It’s what they always do.” Bucky pressed his fingers into the muscles of Steve’s shoulder. Steve was still unsettled. “Hey, hey,” Bucky said, voice soft. He lifted up high enough to press a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve chased the kiss. After a moment, Steve’s hips began moving again, and Bucky spread his legs even more, even though it couldn’t have been comfortable. Steve began thrusting faster, and when Bucky let out a low moan, Steve’s hand instinctively clamped over Bucky’s mouth. Bucky’s eyes opened wide, but he didn’t protest. Steve thought he could feel a smirk against his palm. 

The rest of the Commandos, true to Bucky’s word, did not return until sunrise. Steve and Bucky were in their respective sleeping bags by then, eyes closed and pretending to be asleep. 

  
  


Sometimes, Steve wondered what the Commandos would say if they knew. They were as important to him as brothers. He trusted them with his life. Yet, just one small fact could change all that. 

Sometimes Dum Dum intimidated him, a fact Bucky surely would’ve laughed at. Dum Dum was jolly, filled with the kind of loud, extroverted kindness that made everyone around him feel comfortable. Nonetheless, Steve couldn’t help but feel that perhaps the reason Dum Dum was so confident in his ways was because he had nothing to prove. He was a Boston born all-American man. No secrets, no shame. To a certain extent, he felt similarly about Falsworth and Dernier. They didn’t have the same attitude about them that Dum Dum did, but they were still who they said they were through and through. Nothing to prove. 

Because of this, Steve sometimes felt himself gravitating towards the company of Gabe and Morita. The two of them often stuck next to one another as it was. Steve knew Gabe had fought his way out of a service unit in order to join the Commandos. Steve’s seen the looks other soldiers have openly directed Gabe’s way. He’s heard the hateful words they’ve thrown at him. “I’m glad I’m here,” Gabe once told him. “I just wish I didn’t have to compete against my brothers to get here.” While Gabe fought for his right to serve, Jim seemed to have been more or less coerced into the army. His family, according to Jim, had been relocated from Fresno to a concentration camp in Nevada. As many Nisei did, Jim volunteered for the military to prove his allegiance. 

“They gave us quizzes,” Jim once explained to them. “The quizzes were in english, so my parents failed them. They thought we were traitors. So now I am here.”

Sometimes, Jim and Gabe shot him curious looks, as if they were wondering silently why Steve opted to drink with them at the bar when he could be flirting with the french girls alongside the rest of the Commandos. 

“Seriously, Captain,” Gabe finally said one night. “Have you seen the looks you’ve been getting?”

Steve was unaware. All his focus was on Bucky on the dance floor. Bucky danced like everyone was watching. He danced like  _ Steve _ was watching. Even as he swept a girl off her feet, his eyes would look over her shoulder and settle on Steve knowingly. 

“Maybe he’s just a bad dancer,” Morita said. “Aren’t you, Cap?” There was something to Morita’s tone that made Steve break his gaze from Bucky. Morita was looking at him like he was trying to figure him out.

“No. Can’t dance to save my life,” Steve said. 

“Not a dancer, huh?” Gabe said. His eyes briefly flickered over Steve’s body. “At least you don’t look the part.”

  
  


The only woman Steve danced with his entire time in the army was Agent Carter. They were one of the same in courage and stubbornness, though Steve often thought her intelligence more closely rivaled Bucky’s. They both had that decisive, sure way about them, like they already knew the truth.

“You should marry her,” Bucky said one night as they were lying in bed back at base. Steve was never more thankful for his private Captain’s quarters. “She seems like she can keep up with you—or more like you can keep up with her.”

The lights were all off. The bed was only meant for one person, and so their legs were intertwined, Steve’s head resting on Bucky’s chest.

“The two of you could find a nice place once the war is over, maybe in the countryside. Have a bunch of little Roger-Carter hybrids running around. Dear god.”

They both laughed quietly at that. Though the quarters were private, the walls were still relatively thin.

“And I can be Uncle Bucky,” Bucky continued. His voice sounded wistful. “I’ll visit on the weekends and spoil them with presents. I’ll tell them how their dad was a shrimp and a schmuck.”

Something in Steve’s chest began to ache. He reached over, grabbing Bucky’s hand. 

“What if I want you over more than just for the weekend?” Steve asked smally. His question hung in the air. 

“Steve,” Bucky finally said. His hand reached down, tracing the corded muscle of Steve’s shoulder. Steve was prepared for a reprimand, or something along the lines of  _ it can’t happen. It’s not in our cards. You know how it is. _ Instead—“I know it’s selfish, but I’m glad you haven’t changed.”

Steve then remembered Bucky’s look back in the tent. The uncertainty. The nervousness. He didn’t understand until this moment what Bucky had been afraid of. 

“You thought the serum changed me,” Steve said, the words by nature accusing. 

“It changed a lot of you,” Bucky replied. 

“But it didn’t change  _ me, _ ” Steve said. He wasn’t sure why he felt so angry, but he did. When he looked up at Bucky, Bucky didn’t look offended. Instead, he just looked sad. 

“Do you wish it did though?” Bucky asked. They stared at each other for a moment, then Steve gave a sigh and resettled himself on Bucky’s chest. 

“Let’s just go to sleep, Buck.”

  
  


Steve knew he could never marry Peggy. Not just for Bucky’s sake, but for Peggy’s too. 

“You know I’m a person,” Peggy said once when they were alone in her office. She kept her eyes down at her paperwork as Steve stood nervously in front of the desk. “I don’t always show it, but I have dreams too. Dreams outside of my professional life.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” Steve admitted. Peggy looked up. Her gaze was piercing. In moments like these, Steve wondered if he really was a homosexual. Perhaps there was just something special about Peggy, or something special about Bucky. Steve knew he had to be either homosexual or not. He couldn’t have it both ways. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I have goals as ambitious as yours,” Peggy said. “And those goals are just as important as yours. I don’t just want to get married. I want to fall in love. And when I do so, I need to know that it is genuine. That I’m not being used. I refuse to have my time and energy wasted.”

“Peggy,” Steve said pleadingly. He wasn’t sure what he was pleading for. Peggy’s eyes softened a fraction. 

“Steve,” she said sadly. Then her shoulders straightened. “If you ever figure it out, let me know.”

  
  


A week after their return to camp, the Howling Commandos were reinvigorated and ready for action once again. Then Bucky was shot on enemy territory. As captain, Steve was expected to continue forward with the rest of the men while Morita patched Bucky up. But that was not what Steve did. Instead, heart racing, he called for retreat to where Morita and Bucky were hidden. 

“How bad,” Steve demanded, his knees aching as he sank into the snow. The ground besides Bucky was red. Morita had his hands pressed over the wound, which appeared to be just below the rib cage on Bucky’s right side. “Fuck. Did it hit the liver?”

“Calm down Steve,” Bucky choked out. He had a smile on his lips, even as he was shuddering in pain. Steve reached out to smooth back Bucky’s hair, then froze, hand outstretched. Morita gave him a glance. 

“Doesn’t seem to have hit the liver,” Morita said. “If it did, there would be more blood.” Morita paused. “If you’re not going to use that hand, Captain, I need you to grab some gauze.”

Steve shakily handed over the gauze, which Morita replaced beneath his hand. Steve heard a scuffle of footsteps as the rest of the Commandos approached. 

“Cap, you called for retreat,” Gabe said, clearly expecting the worst. His shoulders loosened when he saw Bucky still conscious.

“Est-ce que le capitaine va bien?” Dernier asked. “Pourquoi a-t-il l'air secoué?”

“I’m fine, guys,” Bucky said, though his voice proved unconvincing. He was shivering from blood loss. “This ain’t the first time.” Morita’s lips hardened into a thin line. 

“Back-up’s still more than an hour out,” Morita said. Bucky closed his eyes as he understood the words. “I’m going to remove the bullet here. We’re still on enemy territory. I need lookout.” Morita looked at Steve pointedly. Steve looked up, realizing all his men were staring at him expectantly. He straightened.

“Dugan, James, Jaques. You’re on lookout. Don’t engage if you don’t have to,” Steve said. His men nodded and headed off. Gabe remained. 

“I assume I’m here to help?”

Steve nodded. 

“Gabe, take over for me,” Morita said. “Captain, you got a belt on you?”

Hidden within the bare, winter foliage, Morita dug through Bucky’s wound with gloved hands as Bucky screwed his eyes shut and bared down on the leather belt between his teeth. They weren’t even five minutes into the process when footsteps crunched outside their hideout. Both Gabe and Steve froze as Morita silently soldiered on. The footsteps weren’t leaving. The words they spoke were foreign. 

Steve could tell Bucky was holding back a bad scream. There was no anesthetic, not even whiskey, and despite the pain, Bucky wouldn't fall unconscious. Bucky kept staring up at Steve, nothing but raspy, white breaths escaping his lips. Steve hated the silence. He hated that Bucky couldn’t even scream when he was hurt. 

Later that night, when they were in the safety of their own beds, Steve would reflect on the fact that Morita had him uselessly hold the belt while he and Gabe stitched up the wound. No one needed to hold the belt, and Bucky was certainly strong enough to find comfort in the winter sky rather than Steve’s eyes. Steve could’ve done something of use, like lead his remaining men toward the enemy. But right then, on the snow, which was rapidly growing red, Steve could only think of one thing: Bucky’s silence. 

As soon as the footsteps wandered off, Steve curled in upon himself until his forehead pressed against Bucky’s. 

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve whispered. Jim and Gabe could surely hear, but neither of them acknowledged him. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky let out a shuddering breath.

III.

There were three words Steve would use to describe the 21st century: bright, loud, and lonely. 

As soon as Steve discovered Google, he looked up everyone he knew. Each click felt like a death. The Commandos were all gone. Bucky’s sisters were all gone. Even Florence from next door was gone. It all felt like a fiction.

Peggy, however, was still alive. 

She was sick though. Dementia. Peggy’s daughter was the one who told him so. Strangely enough, meeting Peggy’s daughter felt like a death itself. The death of time. They exchanged a few emails after Steve’s reawakening. She promised Steve she’d tell him when Peggy was having a good day. A good day finally came after two and a half weeks. Steve could hardly stomach anything that day. 

When he saw Peggy, he thought he would cry. She had aged gracefully, but aged nonetheless. Peggy looked like she could cry too. 

“You look just like the day we lost you,” Peggy said. Her fingers touched his face, as if disbelieving that he was real. Then her fingers went to his haircut. “Look at you. A twenty-first century man.”

“Hardly,” Steve said, laughing wetly. “I feel like I’m in an H.G Wells novel.”

They talked about how Steve was adjusting. They talked about Peggy’s daughter. Steve couldn’t help but let a small, sorrowful smile settle across his face. 

“I’m glad you found someone,” Steve said. “Someone who deserves you.”

Peggy looked at him long and hard. She still had that piercing gaze. 

“And what about you?” she asked. 

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

Steve could only think of one person.

“The last thing I need right now is a date,” Steve said. 

“But maybe someday?”

Steve wasn’t sure how to tell her that it wasn’t in his cards. That he wasn’t planning on changing his life, but was instead waiting for it to end. He didn’t belong in this time.

“You’re still in love, aren’t you?”

Steve’s head jerked up. Peggy was looking at him softly. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” When Steve said nothing, Peggy let out a soft sigh and covered his hand with her own. “You can say it now, you know? Love. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? You loved him?”

Steve felt his eyes prickling. Something heavy settled in his throat. 

“Yeah, but it’s too late now,” Steve said. 

  
  


Steve liked to think his first real friend in the 21st century was Natasha. She wore an awful lot of black and couldn’t cook to save her life, but she was a good listener, and after seventy years, Steve needed to talk. 

“Sometimes I wonder what my mom would think,” Steve said. 

“You never told her?” Natasha asked. They were in the kitchen together. Steve was attempting to teach her how to make soup. It was four AM, the sky oppressively dark outside. Neither of them could sleep. 

“People didn’t come out back then,” Steve said. “You were  _ found _ out.”

Natasha made a  _ hm _ noise. Steve glanced down at her diced tomatoes, which looked oddly mutilated. “And why is this all starting to bother you now?”

Steve looked down at the bubbling water. 

“I don’t know. It just feels so pointless for me to be here by myself. I… there’s just so many things that could’ve been. If I was born in this century, then maybe she would’ve accepted me. Maybe we would've been closer.”

“What makes you think she wouldn’t have accepted you?” Natasha asked. 

“Just the way she talked about it. Or rather didn’t talk about it. It was the default to not accept it.”

“You need to stop saying ‘it.’”

“Sorry. What I mean to say is, I don’t think my mom considered me being—me being  _ gay _ even within the realm of possibility.” The word felt foreign on Steve’s tongue. “I think she… I think she thought it was strange, or—or  _ perverted _ . And the worst part is, I almost understand her. Sometimes, when I think of myself with another man, I feel  _ wrong. _ Like if I was looking at us, we wouldn’t look right. We’d look too similar to each other, or too different. Not like a guy and a girl, where everything just  _ fits _ .” Steve gave a bitter chuckle. “How fucked up is that?”

Natasha was quiet for a moment. She had stopped trying to cook altogether.

“Your mother…” she said. “What kind of person was she?”

“Huh?”

Natasha didn’t repeat her question. She merely raised her eyebrows. 

“I—she was nice. Incredibly kind. I was one hell of a child. I was sick all the time, and when I wasn’t sick, I was getting into trouble. God. I don’t know how she did it. Is that wrong?” Steve looked to Natasha. “We weren’t super religious, but she believed in the book. People nowadays… they’d tear her apart for what she believed in—but she was so  _ kind. _ And I loved her. How can all those things be true?”

Natasha was silent, a sign that she was thinking. The pot bubbled quietly at the stove. 

“Well,” she finally said. “Maybe it isn’t a person’s beliefs that make them good or bad. Maybe its about whether they’re willing to change.”

  
  


The first person to truly spark Steve’s interest in the 21st century was a brunette woman jogging in the park, a fact which completely baffled Steve. Sam quickly noticed Steve’s sudden silence. 

“Something bothering you?” Sam asked. Sam followed Steve’s line of sight. A grin crawled its way onto Sam’s face. “ _ Ah. _ ”

Steve tore his eyes away, blushing furiously. “It’s not like that.”

“You sure? Coulda sworn I heard some music.”

“Laugh all you want.” Steve paused. “I’m gay.”

He had never come out to a guy before. He hated to admit it, but he was more afraid of coming out to a man than a woman. He knew first hand how fucked up a man’s head could be—there was a word for it now, according to Natasha:  _ toxic masculinity. _ Steve wasn’t ready to be hurt yet. Maybe in a few more years, but not right now. 

“Oh,” Sam said. A beat passed. Then Sam clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me.”

Steve gave a little laugh. Then another. Sam joined him. They laughed until they were collapsed on the grass, tired out from the jogging and the fear. Steve felt relieved. 

“That girl though,” Sam said. “I don’t want to press, but you were kinda staring. You know her or something?”

“I—she’s pretty is all,” Steve said. “Old habits, I suppose. I mean, I know for certain that I’m attracted to men, so… it’s gotta be something else.”

Sam studied him. 

“There are bi people out there too, Steve,” Sam said. “Pan also.”

“Pan?”

“Pansexual,” Sam said. “It’s when you are attracted to someone for reasons other than their gender.” Sam paused. “What I mean to say is, I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to come out to me. And I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

Steve looked up at the sky. 

“You all have a lot more words now, huh?” Steve said. 

“Well, any feeling anyone as ever had—all of it has always existed. It’s just that a word helps makes it more real. Gives people a way to talk about things.”

“You don’t ever feel… confined at all?” Steve asked. “Like you have to fit into a certain word?”

“Then we’ll just make more words,” Sam said, smiling. “We’ll make words until, maybe someday, we won’t need them.”

*

Before Bucky reappeared, Steve felt like he was drifting. He just needed to finish this life. Then he could get back to his loved ones. The place he belonged. 

Then, suddenly and with no preamble, Steve quite literally slammed back down onto the hard earth, which felt real and sharp beneath his cheek. There he was: Bucky. Just out of arm’s reach. 

For the first time ever, the 21st century was exciting. Even in the darkest moments, when Bucky seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, Steve daydreamed about loving him in this new era. They could touch, they could marry, they could make noise. 

But when Bucky finally returned, it wasn’t all that. Bucky didn’t want to be touched. Not in any way, not by anyone. Marriage was off the table, considering that half the country wanted Bucky dead. As for noise—Bucky was dead silent. 

That wasn’t to say they didn’t love each other. There were no more feverish love making sessions on too-small mattresses, no more frenzied, hidden kisses, but there was the way Steve made them both breakfast in the morning, and the way Bucky stayed up late at night in front of the TV, waiting for Steve to return from his mission. The two of them together reminded Steve of the elderly couple that lived above his mother’s apartment in Brooklyn. Steve’s mother sometimes sent him up there to help out, whether it be washing the dishes or fixing the sink. Steve had been twelve then and curious about love. At first, he thought that the couple was unhappy. Steve always thought love was wild. Exhilarating. Like in the pictures he and Bucky saw down at the theater, or in the stories his mother told him of her youth. 

Then, over the weeks, Steve picked up on the quiet gestures: the way the husband helped wash the wife’s feet at day end; the way their hands brushed as they crossed paths in the hallway; the way they never had to say or do anything to prove their love, because their love was so certain. 

Perhaps that was what they had now: that all-certain love.

  
  


Sometimes Steve felt ashamed. A gay, thirty-something white man wasn’t the worst thing to be in the 21st century. There were countless of other people having it worse. Steve was never called anything on the street. Steve was not paid less, nor judged for what he wore. He wasn’t denied citizenship. He wasn’t in danger from the people who should’ve been protecting him. Steve should be grateful if anything. Nonetheless, he was still afraid. 

He reasoned with himself that the fear was okay, so long as he didn’t make it all about himself. But also, he did want to talk about it. He did want change. He told this all to Bucky one day, hoping Bucky would understand. 

“I just don’t get it,” Steve said. “Why does it all got to be a competition? Why is it that everyone’s got to line up to see who deserves getting their rights first?”

“I know Steve,” was all Bucky said. “I know.”

  
  


Slowly but surely, they rekindled their intimacy. 

They began sharing a bed again, though Bucky didn’t curl up against Steve’s side like he used to. One morning, they took a shower together, and Bucky let him wash his hair. 

“Have we done this before?” Bucky had asked. He had his eyes closed, and seemed to be enjoying the warm water. 

“No,” Steve said. “But we have all the time in the world to do this again.”

They also began talking more as Bucky’s memory rekindled. On the hottest day of the summer, Steve took them down to the local movie theater. “We used to see a picture whenever we could,” Steve said. 

“Why?” Bucky asked. 

“It was the only way to get away from the heat.”

When Bucky was ready, they went to visit their old apartment building, which had since been renovated into a sleek, new complex. Steve’s eyes bulged when he saw the prices. Bucky didn’t say much then, leading Steve to assume that the apartment looked too foreign now to trigger any memories, but back home, the two of them lying in bed, Bucky began asking questions. 

“When did you know you liked me?”

Steve thought back to a summer day, his legs dangling freely over a fire escape. That felt so far away now as they both laid in the dim darkness of their room, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. The room hummed with the faint noise of electricity. Bucky was lying on his side of the bed, but their hands brushed in the middle—Bucky’s left with Steve’s right. Bucky once told him that he could feel pressure in his metal arm, but not much else. Not pain, not temperature, not texture. “Sometimes I can feel. But that’s just my brain tricking me.” Steve remembered a day when they were caught in the rain, and how Bucky held his left hand out, as if to feel the cool wetness. He wondered what Bucky felt now. Did he just feel the slight pressure where their arms brushed, or did he also feel the soft prickle of Steve’s blonde arm hairs, the warmth of Steve’s skin?

“I think I always knew I liked you, deep down,” Steve said to Bucky’s question. “But the first time those feelings came to the surface, I must’ve been twelve. That was the summer we really began growing up. I remember being so conscious of everything you did.” Steve paused. “What about you… do you remember when you knew?”

There was a moment of silence. Steve began feeling guilty for asking. He couldn’t help it sometimes. He was greedy for it. Those first few years in the new century had been so lonely, then there Bucky was, standing like proof that everything in Steve’s life had existed. That the absurd, fantastical story of his life was not just a story. 

“I don’t remember something so specific like you do,” Bucky said, “but sometimes I get a feeling… like when you washed my hair, I had this feeling that I knew I had felt before, even though you said you never washed my hair before.” Bucky paused. “Does that count?”

Steve couldn’t hide the thickness in his voice. 

“Yes.”

  
  


They hardly touched in public. An old habit, perhaps. 

Whenever their knuckles brushed, they would both jerk away. It was survival instinct. They walked far enough from each other on the sidewalk that it wasn’t suspicious. They never went to a restaurant where it was just the two of them. It all reminded Steve of the early days, when they would feel like co-conspirators as they secretly went on a date to the movies, or to the park. There was a certain amount of camaraderie in keeping a secret together, but also an unchanging, devastating fear. 

The first queer couple Steve saw in public were two women kissing near a fountain. It was a brief, chaste kiss. The kind of kiss shared between two people who had all the time in the world to share more passionate kisses later. There were people all around, but no one said anything. Some people did stare, but no one was calling the cops. What struck Steve most, though, were the women’s smiles. They didn’t look afraid. When Steve turned, Bucky was looking at him. 

“I know there’s no flying cars,” Bucky said, “but the future’s not half bad.”

  
  


In a photo booth on Coney Island, they got their picture taken. 

“Look at us,” Steve said, holding the pictures out in front of them. As soon as they stepped out of the booth, they stepped apart, but not even that could get rid of their smiles. The sun was setting across the water. The boardwalk lights were all flickering to life. Steve’s chest felt open. “Who woulda thought, huh?” Steve said. “Just two boys from Brooklyn.”

On another one of Peggy’s good days, Steve went to visit. He brought the pictures. 

“You two look beautiful,” Peggy said, gingerly holding the pictures. She turned to Steve with a look of pride. “You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”

“Not quite,” Steve admitted, thinking of that space that still separated them when they were in public. “But we’re getting there.”

  
  


In the end, Bucky was the first one bold enough to touch. They were thirty-one and thirty-two. The year was 2015. Winter had arrived early that year, bringing with it sharp, blustery winds. Almost unconsciously, the city as a whole shuffled a little closer together, gathering warmth. 

They were on the subway to the park. The cars were packed and loud with the sound of coat sleeves. Steve didn’t really mind the cold. He ran hot these days, and had even unzipped his coat when he got on the subway. Bucky, on the other hand, ran colder than ever. 

The desire to touch was there. That was for certain. If things were different, Steve would reach out and pull Bucky against his chest, letting his natural heat warm the both of them. But decades of repression had taught Steve to stomach that desire down, to let it remain a whisper in his mind. Bucky was dressed for the cold anyway, gloves as always on both hands. 

Bucky kept looking up at him though. It was a look Steve had seen on him a few dozen times over the years: a blend of uncertainty and determination. They were standing near the doors of the subway, Steve leaning against the railings on one side, Bucky on the other, their dark reflections glancing at each other in the windows. It was a comfortable distance. Then Bucky stepped closer. And closer. Steve felt his breath hitch. The stood less than a foot apart, staring at each other. Bucky tugged off the glove to his right hand. It was Bucky’s hand, same as always. They both watched as Bucky gingerly reached out and pressed his fingers against Steve’s solar plexus. Steve felt the pressure of the fingers, the chill that seeped through his shirt. Bucky then leaned closer, his entire palm resting against Steve’s body. Steve reached up and covered Bucky’s hand with his own. 

“I’ve got cold fingers,” Bucky whispered. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos always appreciated!


End file.
